Traveling across Texas can feel endless. The highways stretch for hours, crossing desert plains, rolling hills, and sudden mountain ranges that rise like mirages. From Houston to the artsy small town of Marfa, the drive alone takes at least eight hours; go all the way to El Paso, it’s closer to 11. Flying may save a lot of time, but it also trades Texas’s vast horizons for layovers and rushed, disconnected views in comparably cramped spaces.

Looking for an adventure where the trip is as rich as the destination? Ride the train.

Amtrak’s Sunset Limited, which travels from New Orleans to Los Angeles through Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona, is the oldest named passenger route still operating in the United States. Started by the Southern Pacific Railroad in 1894, this storied locomotive helped lay the literal groundwork for small towns and emerging economies between the Gulf Coast and the Southwest.

In Texas alone, the train makes a slow, sweeping round-trip journey through seven cities three times a week. Heading west, it visits Beaumont before making a pit stop in Houston, the sprawling metropolis once known as the place “where 17 railroads meet the sea;” then, San Antonio, Del Rio, Sanderson, Alpine, and, finally, El Paso. A full one-way trip across the state takes nearly 20 hours, a long ride that is a reminder of Texas’s size and its ties to the rails that built it.

However antiquated it might feel at first, train travel in the US is quietly making a comeback. Amtrak reported an all-time ridership record in 2024, with a 15 percent increase in customer trips over the year before, totaling 32.8 million. In 2025, I boarded, too—hoping to explore Texas in a new way.

Outbound

The trip itself took some research and planning. I spent hours on the Amtrak website, tweaking my itinerary details before settling on a stop in Alpine so that I could spend a couple of nights in Marfa before exploring El Paso. For $957, I booked three legs, two of them in a roomette, a snug two-person cabin with a pair of seats that convert into a bed, along with an upper berth. From Alpine to El Paso, I opted for coach (just $28 for that four-hour ride!). Towing a massive suitcase (and equal parts anticipation, enchantment, and skepticism), I boarded at the Houston Amtrak Station on a hot September evening.

With the help of an attendant, I dragged my bag onboard and upstairs to my roomette, which had blankets and pillows and just enough space for me, my laptop, and my thoughts. I bonded with a neighbor in another roomette, a woman traveling to California, over the novelty of it all—particularly the bathrooms, which were similar in size to an airplane restroom, but with small showers tacked on.

Mealtimes were when the train really felt alive. The first night, the menu delighted with soft rolls with butter, fried shrimp with sweet Thai chile sauce, hearty flat-iron steak with a port wine sauce—all cooked on a skillet, arguably better than most plane food I’ve had. Dessert followed with a cold chocolate spoon cake. Morning brought omelets and French toast with melted butter and berries. With tables decorated with small vases of flowers and desert plains rolling by, it was here that I could envision what the Sunset Limited once was in its prime: a sophisticated way to travel across the state in fine company, before the rise of highways and air travel.

That company became a defining part of my trip. While dining with strangers might not be everyone’s definition of a good time, the Sunset Limited makes clever use of its dining car by directing oncoming travelers, in the order that they come, into charming, old-fashioned booths. That means you’re likely to be joined by a stranger—or, in my case, three. Meals, included in the price of a room, forced us to talk with our fellow diners, because who wants to sit that close in silence? Each time, my companions were different. There were retirees, former magazine publishers, travelers who opted for train travel due to health reasons, and many braving the long route all the way to Los Angeles, one of whom I shared the train’s last slice of blueberry cobbler cheesecake with.

The daytime ride from Alpine to El Paso was another highlight. Though I had a seat with ample legroom and space to recline (another win for train vs. plane), I headed to the observation car to watch the West unfold. I saw desert flats, suddenly rising mountains, long valleys, and high plateaus that reminded me of Texas’s diverse and sometimes very dusty geography. I caught occasional glimpses of roaming deer and longhorns. I witnessed my first dust devil, small-town life, and even the famous Prada Marfa installation. Along the way, fellow travelers shared their stories: a New York perfumer who wound through the country by rail for a wedding, a geologist returning to Tucson, a minister with uncanny Goofy and Donald Duck impressions, and a dozen more with tales unfolding along the tracks, each eager to hear where others were going and why. The community on board, even among helpful staff who pointed out photo ops from our train windows, became a part of the journey.

Night was far less romantic. I loved the private, no-frills roomette, which had just enough space for me to lock myself in, close the curtains, and unwind with whatever activity didn’t require the unreliable Wi-Fi or cell service. But sleeping was rough. I braved the bumpy top bunk first before trying, unsuccessfully, to convert the two recliners into a bed myself. When I sank to the floor, I settled for the rocking upper berth, catching a small nap during a short (and still) layover in San Antonio after midnight. (On the way back, I opted for the “turndown” service and had an attendant set up my bed. Now, this was what a train bed was supposed to feel like. It was comfortable, but the broken air-conditioning that night nearly did me in.)

I considered it a price to pay for the convenience and the safety I felt—would I be willing to drive myself across the state like this, alone? I might have met some quirky characters on a plane, but this way I got to do it without TSA stress, turbulence, or that embedded fear, tucked in the back of my mind, of falling out of the sky.

Homebound

The return trip was different, maybe a little less majestic. Headed west, I felt in awe of everything—the blaring train horn, even the delays, which happened when we were stuck behind a freight or during a stop to fuel up (worth noting: despite delays, we arrived on schedule or early at nearly every stop). Going back east, though, anticipation gave way to homesickness. The ride felt longer, and the food felt flatter (having dined my way through El Paso, that’s to be expected). I was also exhausted from my trips in between. The leg back to Houston, then, was less about socializing and staring out the window, and more about recharging—reflecting, even. It turns out train rides are perfect for that, too.

Sure, I could have cut my travel time down by more than 10 hours, but in this busy, fast-paced, screen-filled world, taking a slower route with some of the most basic amenities and little Wi-Fi was a welcome change. Whether I slipped into solitude with an audiobook or swapped stories with strangers, I had the rare chance to simply watch Texas roll by. It’s the kind of trip I could imagine doing again under different circumstances—maybe even with my toddlers in tow, free to wander the aisles and marvel at the views that stretch for miles.

The Sunset Limited proved, then, to be more than a way west. It was a moving front porch—an invitation to watch Texas unfurl from a window seat, and proof that the ride itself can be just as rewarding as where it takes you.